She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. “What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. ‘Never would he have gone to England.
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